Cassini Roams

Second Chances (Naoya x Reader)

˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ Chap 1 - The One With The Push─ ˖᯽ ݁˖·

⁺˚⋆｡°✩ Summary ✩°｡⋆˚⁺

After years of enduring Naoya's cruelty in your marriage, one desperate push at the top of the stairs changes everything.

He falls, but he doesn’t die. He wakes with no memory of who he was, or what he did to you.

With his family desperate to hide the truth and preserve his inheritance, you become his caretaker… and his only anchor. The man who once made you flinch at the sound of his footsteps, now follows you around like a lost ghost, soft-eyed and uncertain.

You could tell him the truth. You could walk away, but guilt keeps you here, and love, eventually, makes it hard to leave.

‎‧₊˚✧ Warnings ✧˚₊‧

Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Graphic descriptions of domestic abuse, Physical & emotional violence, Amnesia, Hurt/Comfort, Heavy angst, Slow burn romance, Non-con elements, Smut (More warnings will be added when full chapter is posted).

‎‧₊˚✧ Word Count ✧˚₊‧

3,271k

˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ Chap 2 ─ ˖᯽ ݁˖·

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨Masterlist୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

TRIGGER WARNING - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED! - TRIGGER WARNING!

You have always hated hospitals, the way the antiseptic clings to the back of your throat long after you’ve left, the relentless metronome of monitors counting out someone else’s fragile hold on life, the soft mechanical sighs that never quite mask the undercurrent of grief threading through every corridor. 

They are places where hope is lost, thread by thread, where families learn in increments what grief feels like before it finally arrives, and sitting here beside Naoya, his chest rising and falling only because machines insist on it, tubes snaking beneath pale skin, an IV line taped crookedly to the back of his hand, you cannot remember a time the hatred for this place burned this hot inside your ribs.

Your fingers rest around his, as though the slightest pressure might dislodge the needle or remind his body how little fight it has left. His palm is cooler than it should be, the kind of cold that seeps in when circulation slows and life begins to feel tenuous. 

You fight the urge to pull away, telling yourself the dread pooling in your stomach is only guilt wearing a friendlier mask. 

The beeping continues, indifferent to your fears, a cruel reminder that he is still here even if the man who once filled rooms with his voice and his fury is nowhere to be found.

The door sighs open behind you, a soft pneumatic swoosh, and you turn your head just enough to see Emiko step inside. Her dark hair catches the fluorescent light in muted waves, the pale teal pantsuit she wears looks starched to the point of discomfort, as though she dressed for a boardroom rather than a deathwatch. 

She moves with the practiced quiet of someone who has spent years learning not to disturb powerful men, even when they lie unconscious.

“You’re still here” she says, not quite a question, more the gentle press of an observation against the silence.

You nod once, the motion stiff, then let your gaze drift back to Naoya.

In this stillness he could be anyone, the sharp edges of his jaw softened by sedation, the perpetual sneer smoothed away, nothing left of the hunger that used to rise in his eyes whenever your voice faltered or your shoulders curved inward. He looks almost peaceful.

The sight twists something vicious in your chest.

“Any change?” Emiko asks.

“No.” You lift your free hand, settling it over his so that both of yours cradle his cold palm, as if shared warmth might coax life back into the veins. “The doctors remain… hopeful”

She echoes the words, but it carries no conviction, only the weariness of someone who has heard the same platitudes for weeks. 

You’ve watched them peel back his eyelids on schedule, shine penlights across pupils that barely to react, murmur about stable intracranial pressure while you stand in the corner trying not to let your knees buckle. Hope, in this room, has begun to feel like another machine they wheel in and out.

The silence stretches between you, thick with everything neither of you are willing to say.

She had seen the bruises blooming beneath long sleeves, the way you flinched at the sound of his footsteps in the hall. She had watched you swallow tears at family dinners and still she said nothing, because Zenin women learn early that silence is safer than accusation.

You wonder, not for the first time, whether she ever imagined this future when she first held him as an infant, whether she glimpsed the disdain already growing in those infants eyes, or simply told herself that boys like him grow into men who command.

“Thank you” she says at last, the words scraping out as though they cost her something. She drifts closer until she stands at the foot of the bed, gaze settling on his still face with an expression you cannot quite read. Grief, perhaps, or regret, or simple exhaustion. “Thank you for staying… despite his…”

You cut her off before the sentence can finish. “What else would I do?” The lie tastes metallic. “He’s my husband.”

She doesn't argue, but the small tilt of her head tells you she hears the hollowness beneath the claim. She studies him as though searching for the child she once knew, the one who might have smiled at her without contempt, and you wonder how long it has been since she saw anything in him but the heir she was expected to produce.

“I just…” The words catch in your throat, heavy with everything you cannot yet admit. “I want him to wake up.”

The rest stay lodge in your throat.

That you need him conscious so you can finally leave, so you can sign the papers and walk away carrying only the memory of what he had done rather than the fresh stain of what you did.

You had not meant to push him that hard. You had not wanted to watch his body fall, limbs unfolding in slow, terrible arcs until he lay crumpled at the bottom of the stairs like trash.

But exhaustion had hollowed you out that night, left you raw and trembling, and when his hand rose, open-palmed, the promise of inevitable pain, you reacted before thought could catch up.

The gala had already stretched unbearably long. You were expected to sit prettily on his arm, to smile through conversations that reduced you to decoration, to pretend your mind held no opinions worth voicing.

The fixed curve of your lips had begun to ache hours earlier, the muscles protesting every fresh pleasantry. You were not made for this world, your parents’ debts had delivered you here, trading one cage for another.

All you had ever wanted was a quiet life, a small house, children who laughed without fear, mornings spent among plants that asked nothing of you except water and sunlight.

“Stand up straighter” Naoya had hissed, the words barely audible beneath the din of crystal and laughter, yet sharp enough to slice through the noise. “You look sloppy.”

You corrected your posture instantly, spine locking into place to avoid the dig of his fingers into the soft skin above your hip. His hand stayed there, possessive and punishing in equal measure, while wave after wave of admirers approached. Investors, partners, all sycophants who nodded at every word he said as though agreement were oxygen.

By the time the fiftieth couple drifted away, exhaustion sat like lead in your bones. He was mid-boast about quarterly projections, voice carrying over the room in that easy, commanding timbre that made people lean closer, he rarely noticed your absence in those moments, so you slipped toward the long table laden with canapés, pretending interest in the food while your stomach twisted itself into knots.

You sipped wine you barely tasted, hoping the alcohol might blunt the constant low hum of dread that lived beneath your ribs on nights like this, one misstep and the evening would end in pain you would be feeling days later.

“You were supposed to stay by my side tonight.”

The whisper came hot against your ear, breath ghosting over skin still chilled from the air conditioning. You forced yourself to stillness, refusing the instinctive flinch that had cost you dearly before.

His fingers closed around your bare upper arm, nails pressing crescents into flesh. Anyone watching might simply see a husband murmuring intimately to his wife, but you both knew different.

“I’m sorry” you managed, voice steady despite the tremor starting in your knees. “You seemed engrossed, and I—”

“Oh, did I?” Venom coiled beneath the soft tone, the register you had learned to dread most. “You don’t leave. You don’t walk away. And you don’t think.”

“Yes” you whispered, allowing him to steer you back to the spot you had vacated, the skin where his nails had bitten already throbbing in protest.

You knew the rest before the car even reached the driveway, the sequence never varied.

You’re brought to the master bedroom, his jacket shrugged off and draped over a chair, tie unwound and coiled around his fist, not for restraint, but to spare his knuckles the evidence. He had explained it once, almost conversationally, as though the logic were obvious.

You stood just inside the door, every muscle locked, breath shallow, waiting for the dam to break. Movement would only invite it sooner.

“I don’t ask for much” he said, voice dropping until it seemed to come from somewhere within his chest. “Just stand there, keep your fucking mouth shut, and look pretty. But apparently that’s too much.”

He crossed the room in lazy, slow, strides, as though savouring the approach, until he dipped into your line of sight, bending at the waist to bring his face level with yours. His eyes were flat, cold, amused. “Or are you simply too stupid to manage it?”

The moment your lips parted to answer, the back of his hand cracked across your cheek, broad and stinging, more a slap than a punch.

The world tilted, you're sent sprawling onto to the tile, one palm flying instinctively to the burning skin while your ears rang with white noise.

He crouched, close enough that you could smell the faint sting of his cologne over the copper taste rising in your mouth. 

“Don’t say anything” he murmured, shaking his head slowly, studying the tremor in your fingers, the way your shoulders tried to fold inward. “I can’t believe I got stuck with you.”

The words hurt more than the blow. Strange, how some part of you still craved a kindness he had never once offered, as though being wanted, even by him, might prove you were not entirely worthless.

“I’m going to have to teach you another lesson.” The words come out of him slow and tired, as though this were some unavoidable chore rather than the choice he makes every time the mood takes him.

There is no heat in the statement, only the flat certainty of routine, the same tone he might use to complain about traffic or a delayed flight.

His fingers close around the neckline of your dress, dragging you onto your feet, the fabric bunching under his palm as he begins to pull you from the bedroom.

You stumble forward a step before your balance fails entirely, your heels scrape uselessly against the cold tile, seeking purchase that isn’t there.

Instinct drives your legs to kick, small frantic motions that accomplish nothing except to make the drag feel longer, more humiliating.

The resistance seems to irritate him more than the act itself, his grip tightens, knuckles whitening against the silk, and with a sudden jerk of his arm he flings you across the hallway.

Your back meets the wall hard enough that the impact drives every breath from your lungs in a single shocked gasp.

You fold inward, arms wrapping protectively around your middle while pain radiates outward in bright, nauseating waves. He crosses the distance in two strides, loafers silent on the tile until the first kick lands against your ribs.

The blow is precise, practiced, air punches out of you again, this time carrying a sharp, involuntary cry that you cannot swallow. You twist away on instinct, rolling onto your hands and knees, palms sliding against the smooth floor as you try to put even a few inches between you.

Tears blur the edges of everything, hot and useless, spilling over before you can stop them. His hand finds your hair, fingers twisting into the strands near the scalp, yanking your head back so sharply that your neck arches and fresh pain lances down your spine.

He leans close, breath warm against the shell of your ear, voice low and intimate in a way that makes your skin crawl.

“You embarrassed me” he murmurs, almost conversational. “Everyone else’s women were all over them, clinging, smiling, playing their part. But you…” The sentence trails into silence for a heartbeat, then he drives your face downward. Not straight into the tile, he angles it, using the fistful of hair to turn your head at the last second so the impact glances across your cheekbone rather than shattering your nose.

The force still rattles your teeth, stars burst behind your eyelids. “You couldn’t even pretend.”

Another kick follows, lower this time, catching you just below the ribs where the flesh gives too easily. You choke on a sob, the sound wet and ragged. He hauls you upright again by the hair, dragging you backward toward the staircase that looms at the far end of the hall.

“Naoya.” The name slips out before you can stop it, raw and pleading. You almost never use it, he has always hated the sound of his own name in your mouth, as though hearing it reminds him you are a person rather than an object he owns. But desperation overrides caution. “Please. I’m sorry. I won’t—”

“No” he says simply, “you won’t.” His fist drives into your side again, the same vulnerable spot, and this time the pain is so bright it whites out thought for a second.

You double over, gasping, trying to lift your gaze to his face, to force him to see you, really see you. But his eyes are empty, pupils dilated with something that has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with release.

This man, who once promised vows in front of witnesses, only wants to hurt until the pressure inside him eases. You see that now, clear as day.

You lurch to your feet in a clumsy scramble, legs shaking, one arm braced against the wall for balance. The front door is too far, the only direction that feels like escape is the bathroom, with its wood door and flimsy lock. Strong enough to slow him, but not stop him.

You manage three stumbling steps before his arm snakes around your waist from behind, yanking you back against his chest. In another life, with another man, the hold might have felt loving, here it is only confinement.

His other hand rises to your throat, fingers wrapping around the column of it, thumb pressing just beneath your jaw while the rest dig in like claws. Air thins immediately, black spots bloom at the corners of your vision.

“Trying to embarrass me more?” he snarls against your temple. “You want to ruin me?” You shake your head frantically, tears sliding over his knuckles, but he only tightens his grip. “You fucking Bitch.”

He begins dragging you toward the stairs again, footsteps deliberately unhurried. Your heels catch on the edge of a rug, you twist, bucking against the arm around your waist, and for one wild second his hold loosens, just enough.

You wrench free, staggering backward, chest heaving. The sudden freedom seems to ignite something darker in him, his face twists with fresh fury at the audacity of your defiance, even in this moment.

His hand comes up, open-palmed, the silk tie he had coiled around his fist earlier slipping free to dangle forgotten from his fingers. The motion is so familiar that your body decides before your mind can catch up.

Both palms slam against his chest.

The push isn't calculated, it's not measured, it's pure, animal reflex born from the desperate need to survive.

One heartbeat he is staring down at you, hatred blazing clear and bright in those eyes, the next his balance falters, weight shifting backward onto his heels.

Surprise flickers across his features, only briefly, so fast it's almost comical, eyes widening, lips parting in silent question.

Then gravity claims him.

He tips, arms windmilling uselessly for a fraction of a second before they snap out to grab at nothing. Then he's falling.

The first impact is dull, a meaty thud of his shoulder against stair tread, followed by a sickening cascade of elbows, ribs, the back of his skull, each collision punctuated by another heavy, sickening grunt.

The sound seems to stretch, echoing in the high-ceilinged foyer until the final, devastating crack of his body meeting the marble at the bottom.

After that, there's just silence.

Absolute, deafening silence.

You stand frozen at the top of the stairs, arms still outstretched, palms tingling as though they remember the exact texture of his shirt.

Your breath comes in shallow, stuttering pulls, the hallway light glints off the fallen tie lying halfway down the steps like an accusation.

Below, Naoya lies motionless, limbs splayed at unnatural angles, one leg bent wrong beneath him. A thin thread of blood already darkens the marble near his temple.

You do not move. You cannot. The nausea is already rising, thick and choking, wrapping around the raw adrenaline still singing in your veins.

You did not mean to push that hard. You did not mean for any of this. And yet here you are, staring down at the wreckage, wondering how long it will take for the silence to break and the rest of your life to begin collapsing around what you've just done.

The tears come without warning this time, silent at first, then spilling hot and unchecked down your cheeks as the memory loops again behind your eyelids. You cannot stop it, the images seem to play on repeat nowadays, vivid and merciless, each detail sharper than the last. 

Emiko must read the sudden tears on your face as something else entirely, devotion perhaps, the quiet heartbreak of a wife who has stood vigil beside her husband’s broken form for weeks on end.

She cannot know the truth.

Her hand settles on your shoulder, tentative at first, the touch so light it barely registers. Her fingers are thin, almost frail, the skin paper-soft and cool despite the warmth she tries to impart. She hesitates, then presses a little firmer, kneading once, before shifting to awkward, rhythmic strokes. 

The gesture is clumsy, unpracticed, you wonder how many times in her life she has been allowed to offer solace without calculation, without the weight of family expectation turning even kindness into a strategy.

“He’ll wake up” she says softly, the words meant to soothe but, instead, feel more like a threat. Your sobs deepen, wrenching out of you as you press your face into the crisp white linen beside his unmoving hand.

They smell faintly of bleach and medical tape. “Don’t worry, dear. He’s strong. He’ll come back to us.”

The reassurance only tightens the knot inside you. You squeeze his hand harder, fingers threading through his limp ones as though the cold flesh might somehow help you focus, might keep the storm of your mind from swallowing you whole.

For one impossible second it almost feels like he answers, a faint, fleeting flex of his fingers around yours, not strong enough to be certain, but enough to jolt your heart into your throat.

You lift your head slowly, vision swimming through what remains of the tears.

The room smears into streaks of pale blue and brighter white, the monitors blurring into soft halos of green and red. Emiko’s breath catches audibly beside you.

“Oh my god” she whispers, the sound trembling on the edge of a sob. “He’s… he’s waking up.”

Your own sobs cut off mid-breath, shoulders locking as though someone has pulled every muscle taut through your spine. You blink hard, forcing the blur away just in time to see his eyelids flutter, then peel open with an agonising slowness.

His eyes are glazed, unfocused, sweeping the room in a lazy, bewildered arc that takes in the IV stand, the tangle of tubes, the pale teal of Emiko’s pantsuit, and finally, inevitably...you.

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Warning: It does contain multiple scenes of domestic violence, so if that will upset you, do not read!

Picture masturbating for the first time after Nanami's death. It's been a few months and though you're grieving him you're still a young woman with needs.

So you sigh, thinking you're in an ok headspace, it's just masturbating after, it's not like you're with another man. You pull out the trusted little vibrator, throw on some lube, and get to work.

It's going great, pleasure humming into your little bud and folds, but then unbidden, you feel fingers, thick, calloused fingers on your clit and the sound of a Kento's hot breath murmuring in your ears.

"You're so pretty my love, using your toy, but how about I take over from here?"

Your eyes fly open, all pleasantness gone, feeling like you had been hit in the stomach. You try to keep up the pleasant buzz but it's gone, overwhelming sadness filling your body, hot tears leaking out of your eyes as you curl into a ball and sob.

Remembering the warmth of his body and the way his touch made you come alive, his lips on yours, the snug feeling of his cock inside you as you made love.

It was more than the sex, it was the raw emotion behind it, that deep satisfaction that can only come from being with someone you loved deeply.

It was gone. He was gone, buried in the cold earth and you were here, a live woman in the flesh, unable to do anything without him.

All your joy, your pleasures, were gone.

Thank you so much ❤️

You felt so stupid.

What kind of idiot gets kidnapped by the enemy? What kind of idiot lets their guard down and compromises the whole mission?

You sat on the cold, stone floor of your cell. Your hands numb to the cold as they had lost feeling a while ago from being tied behind your back. You would need to see to that soon, lest you lose feeling in them permanently.

Luckily it seemed the enemy was preoccupied with other things, as you hadn’t seen a guard in a while. So besides your hands being numb, no other torture was performed on you in your stay. It had to only be a few hours. It was hard to tell time, since there were no windows in your cell, but your internal clock seemed to think it was still the same day.

You hear the shuffle of feet outside your cell and see a guard finally pass. “Any chance you can get these ropes off me?” You boldly ask. “They’re starting to sting.”

Your request is ignored. Either by the language barrier between you and the people here, or simply because it would be ludicrous to remove your bindings. Regardless, the man just stood their stone faced at his post while you sat there. “Worth a shot I guess….”

There was another lull in the room, you silently trying to think of a plan and your stone faced sentinel keeping watch, when suddenly there as a bursting sound from the ceiling and a loud commotion. The commotion ending swiftly with Kogami standing there. “Hey.”

“Hey!?” You ask incredulously at his calm demeanor. “That’s all you have to say, hey?! What the hell are you doing here?!”

“I came to rescue you.” Which, was obvious, as he was currently pickpocketing your unconscious sentinel for the key to your cell.

“Obviously, but why are you here?! The mission isn’t over is it?”

“No. I don’t think so.” Kogami’s face scrunched as he dug deeper into the man’s pockets for the key.

“Then why are you here? I screwed up. You didn’t really compromise the whole mission just to get me out of here? The mission is more important than me.”

“Nothing is more important that you.” He replied as he opened the cell and stepped in.

You would blush if your circulation was acting properly right now. It was sweet, but stupid. “So how are we going to get out of here?” You ask after Kogami cut your wrists free. Clenching your fingers to get the blood flowing again.

“There’s a hatch above that we can climb through to get outside. Or,” he offered, “we can shoot our way out.”

“I think we’ve caused enough disturbance to the mission without turning this into the OK Corral.” Kogami smirked a little and helped you to your feet. “You really didn’t have to come save me. I mean, I appreciate it. But the job is more important.”

“I said what I said.” Kogami answered, before helping you up into the shaft and climbing up after you.

“Well, remind me when we get out of here that I need to thank you properly.”

“If we get out of here. I may have given away our position by sneaking in to save you.”

“Well, if we don’t, then at least we’ll be together.”

I CARE ABOUT YOU

ASL Brothers x Reader (but it's mostly Ace x Reader bc he loves you and we love him)

Warnings: (this is basically ep.495 but you're in Luffy's place), fluff + little bit of angst, use of Y/n, arguing with Ace because he was a little shit as a child you gotta admit it, fem!R who is sweet and a bit of a crybaby like Luffy, if you don't like it just skip or write your own story^^

English is not my first language so feel free to correct me.